


Thyrsus

by Dizzojay



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Crack, Gen, Humor, Inspired by Ariadne and Dionysus (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), Men of Letters Bunker (Supernatural), Pagan Gods, Supernatural Summergen Fic Exchange
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-14
Updated: 2019-09-14
Packaged: 2020-10-18 13:53:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20640245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dizzojay/pseuds/Dizzojay
Summary: A pagan god(dess) + Dean's unfortunate penchant for snark + Winchester luck = one very annoyed little brother.





	Thyrsus

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Broken_Cinders](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Broken_Cinders/gifts).

> Thank you to Broken_Cinders for a great prompt.  
Warnings for suggestive themes and frequent mentions of sex and sexual situations in a comedy context. Nothing graphic. A couple of F-bombs floating around.

Sam couldn’t concentrate on the dusty Etruscan texts he was ploughing through. It wasn’t that they were boring (which they undeniably were), and it wasn’t that he was particularly interested at that point in time about indexing them properly (he was more inclined to burn them); but his attention was elsewhere.

Dean was down in the bunker’s vaults. 

Of course, Dean, by dint of the fact that he lived in the bunker, had every right to be there, but Sam knew from painful experience that Dean’s visits to the bunker’s vaults rarely ended well. 

The simple fact was that the bunker’s repository of magical and occult artefacts combined with Dean’s inexhaustible and mostly reckless curiosity was an incendiary combination. 

Sam really didn’t want to relive the whole ‘Merman Dean’ nightmare, after Dean got a bit too handsy with Triton’s conch, and the invisibility episode after Dean discovered the Helm of Hades; well, that would be imprinted forever across Sam’s memory – and his nose - after he had collided headlong into his invisible, but still very solid, brother.

Sam had often considered putting a padlock on the door, but when you share quarters with an accomplished lock picker, that was the very definition of a wasted effort. He knew that warning Dean not to go down there was a red light for Dean to go right ahead and do it anyway, and he figured that tying his brother to a chair for the rest of his life was probably slight overkill.

Sam’s musings were rudely interrupted when Dean finally appeared. He seemed to be physically intact, and devoid of wings, horns, boils, boobs, fishtails or any other kind of enchantment that he may have inadvertently projected upon himself. Under the circumstances, Sam was happy to chalk that up as a win. 

Dean was, however, grinning like a loon and carrying … a stick.

Sam knew that grin – the one that usually preceded a bar fight – and his heart sank just a little bit.

“Hey look Sammy!”

He thrust the stick in Sam’s face, allowing Sam’s eyes to scan it for a moment.

“It’s the Staff of Dionysus,” Sam stated matter-of-factly; “I saw it down there a few weeks ago.” 

“Yeah,” Dean replied; “I read the label; I know that.”

“Do you know who Dionysus is?” Sam asked.

“Yeah,” Dean replied irritably; “he’s the God of sex, drugs and rock n’ roll. I just thought this stick was cool,” he added, “because it looks …”

“Dionysus was the Greek God of wine, the grape harvest, ritual madness, fertility, and sexual ecstasy,” Sam interrupted with a sigh; “he was later adopted by the Romans and renamed Bacchus. This is his staff, it’s called the Thyrsus, and it’s a staff of fennel stem, topped with a pinecone.”

Dean blinked. He glanced down at the staff, then to Sam. “If you let me finish, Brainiac, I thought it was cool because it looks like a giant dick,” he snorted. “You’ve taken all the freakin’ fun out of it now.”

Sam resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “Well, he is the God of fertility and sexual ecstasy,” he replied; “I suppose it’s meant to be a phallic symbol.”

Dean twirled the staff like a baton; “well this Dionysus dude sounds awesome. I mean, he’s the God of sex and drinking and he’s got a stick that looks like a giant schlong!”

“Please put it back Dean,” Sam replied, shaking his head in resignation as he went back to his Etruscan texts.

xxxxx

_Thyrsus:_  
It is so many years. Ten centuries since I was ripped from the hands of my master, by explorers and pirates and thieves. I am patient. Over time, I have waited. Waited while many hands, thieving and immoral have taken me further and further away from Olympus, away from my Master. Exchanged me for coin with people who do not care of me, or my master. Many times, I have hoped that I am reunited with my master again. Many times, I have been wrong.  
I did not understand. They did not understand. Even the Men of Letters, they understood – but they did not care. Six score years ago, they acquired me and locked me in this dusty pit, so far away from the mountaintop that I knew.  
But now is different. After all the dismal years there is power and virility. I feel potency and vigor. The beat of nature is calling me and I am once again alive… 

xxxxx

In hindsight, Sam realised that they could never be so lucky as to have no fallout from the stick episode.

And when, over the next couple of days, Dean began to develop a taste for wine, Sam began to feel that familiar sense of foreboding in the pit of his stomach.

The fact that Dean seemed to be drinking wine almost constantly without actually purchasing any was another conundrum that was kept Sam awake at night. Well, that and the faint harp music that he was sure he could hear drifting through the bunker, and that seemed to have no specific origin.

It was on the following morning that Sam finally knew for sure that the bunker’s vaults were about to work their uniquely shitty magic and complicate his life once more.

“Dean?”

“Yeup?”

“Why are you wearing your bedsheet to breakfast?”

Dean looked down at his linen-wrapped body, one bare shoulder poking out from within the coils of voluminous fabric that encircled him down to his knees.

“Um, …” he began; “that’s a good question. I don’t know.”

Sam sighed. “Did you put the Thyrsus away? Back in the vaults?”

Dean picked up his mug which Sam could have sworn he’d filled with coffee, but now appeared to contain wine. “Sort of,” he replied shiftily, taking a swig.

“Sort of? What does that mean?” Sam asked.

“I put it in my room,” Dean replied from behind his wine-filled coffee mug. “I hung it on the wall over my bed.”

“You put it … your room?” Sam snapped; “The staff of freaking Dionysys? For the love of… Why?”

“Because I like it,” Dean snapped back defiantly; “it’s funny. It looks like a giant dick.”

Sam stared at Dean, standing before him, tightly wrapped in the bunker’s faintly grey bedlinen; hairy bowed calves and nobbly ankles on display for the world – or at least, Sam – to see. 

Apparently, the staff wasn’t the only thing that looked like a giant dick.

“Dean, you need to get rid of it – like, now. I think it’s affecting you,” Sam pleaded.

Dean took a sip of wine, “Oh really?”

“Dean, you’re walking around dressed in bedlinen. It doesn’t matter what I put in your mug, it turns to wine the minute you touch it, and more to the point, you’re drinking it – and you hate wine!”

“Okay,” Dean shrugged absently; “yeah, that’s kinda weird.”

“And I was kept awake by some creepy harp music last night,” Sam added, the pitch of his voice rising along with his increasing concern.

“Probably Castiel,” Dean replied coolly.

“Castiel doesn’t have a harp,” Sam countered; “you know he doesn’t – he’s said so.”

“Perhaps he went out and bought one,” Dean mused; “it’s a free country!”

Sam gave up. As Dean walked away, muttering about ‘putting some pants on’, he pushed his Etruscan texts to one side, and steeled himself for an evening of Greek mythology research instead. 

For a seriously smart guy, Dean did a first-class impression of a moron sometimes.

xxxxx

_Thyrsus:_  
Joy abounds.  
I am once again back in the hands of my master.  
Together we will rebuild Olympus. 

xxxxx

Sam’s head had been buried in ancient Greek mythology for a couple of hours before he realised he hadn’t seen Dean since their exchange that morning. Dean’s absence didn’t make him feel any better about the whole situation.

He stood from the table, yawned and stretched, cringing as his spine noisily protested the sudden mobility.

As he stood, rubbing his protesting back, he heard it again. Harp music.

“DEAN!” Sam set off, marching down the corridor towards Dean’s room.

As he approached the closed door to Dean’s room, he could tell, this was definitely where the mysterious harp music originated from, and against the backdrop of that – increasingly annoying – sound, he could hear other noises which he couldn’t, and really didn’t want to, identify.

“Dean, open this door!” He shouted, hammering on the door. He hesitated for a moment, then when no response was forthcoming, he took matters into his own hands. 

“Okay, I’m coming in.”

He barged his way into the room…

And froze.

xxxxx

Viewing the scene in Dean’s room, Sam felt his heart sink and his gorge rise all at the same time; a not inconsiderable anatomical feat. 

Dean was sprawled across his bed, still wearing – although only just, Sam noted – the bedsheet. Around him, two beautiful, nubile women, young and curvaceous and somewhat otherworldly, surrounded him. One was sitting at the edge of the bed, plucking lightly on a golden lyre, while the other was holding a chalice of grapes and feeding them one by one to Dean who was lying with his head in her lap and taking them from her elegant fingers with relish.

Hair mussed, and skin lightly coated with a sheen of sweat, Dean looked flushed and sated, and horribly, revoltingly debauched.

“Oh, hey Sam!” He announced lightly, completely unfazed by the situation; “wanna grape?”

Sam had never run away from a room so quickly in his entire life.

xxxxx

Sam sat, safely ensconced in the bunker’s library again, with a triple (or maybe it was a quadruple – who’s counting?) bourbon in front of him. Against his better judgement, he forced himself to take stock of the situation, and what he had just seen, while at the same time trying to tamp down the urge to beat Dean to death with Dionysus’ stupid staff.

Firstly, there was Dean. He knew Dean was pretty darn shameless, and he’d had the misfortune of walking in on Dean basking in post-coital bliss before, but this seemed different. The guy was practically glowing. If Sam believed in auras and crystals and all that crap, which he didn’t, he would have said there was an aura around Dean. A glowy, sweaty, Dean-shaped aura that Sam had never seen before. And, for the record, never wanted to see again.

Then there were the women. Now that Sam’s brain had recovered from its shock and was more or less functioning again, he could tell those ‘women’ were probably not women at all. For a start, their skin had looked faintly green, their ears were slightly pointed and their hair seemed to be composed of some kind of odd weave of grass and leaves, with no real actual, well, hair. Their dresses, such as they were, were rustic and skimpy and seemed to be little more than moss laced together with green plant tendrils.

Sam pondered for a moment and then did a quick internet search for ‘wood nymph’. 

He slumped back in his chair – apparently knowing the correct answer didn’t make him feel any better.

Then he considered the staff of Dionysus. It was only after Dean brought the damn thing up from the vaults that all this trouble started. Sam had been checking the Letters’ rather sketchy records relating to the Thyrsus and, as a result, knew that it had been removed from Greece almost a thousand years ago. Over the centuries it had changed hands regularly through fair means and foul until it was eventually acquired by the men of letters well over a hundred years ago. It had been stored, locked away in their vaults ever since.

There was frustratingly little else for Sam to go on. Why, for instance, had it kept changing hands? Was it because of crap like this? Sam considered the possibilities as his mind processed the fact that he could hear the faint strains of pan pipes as well as harp music now.

The Thyrsus had been stuck in those vaults for a hundred and twenty years … why hadn’t it caused a full-on orgy situation in the bunker before?

He almost laughed out loud at the thought; it was hard to imagine that bunch of stiffs in the Men of Letters involved in some rowdy alcohol-fuelled orgy. 

Eeew!

Sam paused, nose wrinkled in disgust as his mind played back his last thought. Then he sat up, bolt upright in his seat.

The Letters’ representative who found and transported the staff back to the US was probably like the rest of the Men of Letters – for the most part, dried up old desk jockeys whose idea of a good time was finding new ways to alphabetise their filing system. So, it was stuck in the vaults surrounded by musty old relics - and yes, Sam was including the Men of Letters in that statement.

Then the Winchesters turned up and didn’t pay it any attention until Dean got his mitts on it.

Dean.

Dean, who is about as unlike the Men of Letters as it’s possible to get.

Dean, who when he’s not hunting, lives for booze, sex, overindulgence, hedonism… 

Sam wilted as his head dropped into his hands.

Holy shit! Dean practically IS Dionysus!

xxxxx

Sam got up, and headed out of the library, marching full steam ahead along the labyrinthine corridors toward Dean’s room.

He rounded the corner and skidded to an abrupt halt.

“HOLY FUCK! CAS??”

“Hello Sam.”

“Uh, Cas…?”

“Yes Sam?”

“Cas … you’re a centaur!”

“Yes Sam,” Castiel replied, seemingly unconcerned by this latest turn of events.

Sam blinked as his eyes scanned the figure before him. Looking up at his formerly diminutive friend was an entirely new experience for Sam. Castiel’s familiar face and torso was perched atop the muscular dun body of a horse. A voluminous black forelock all but obscured Castiel’s doleful blue eyes as they gazed down on him. Sam noted how the unkempt dark tuft hung loosely down over the end of the angel’s nose, remaining stubbornly in place despite his repeated attempts to blow it out of his face.

“Cas,” Sam repeated, for want of something – anything – to say; “you’ve still got your trenchcoat on.”

Castiel cocked his head to the side in that endearingly bemused way of his as he peered out from under the stubborn forelock. “Does wearing a trenchcoat preclude me from fulfilling my Centaurial duties?”

“I don’t know,” Sam replied weakly; “I didn’t know Centaurs had duties. I’ve just never seen a centaur wearing a trenchcoat before, or a shirt … or tie.” Sam trailed off as he realised he’d never actually seen a centaur at all. So his point was, in all honesty, entirely moot.

Castiel stamped one of his heavily furred hooves and flickered his two vaguely pointed ears, as the sound echoed through the corridor. “His lord Dionysus is engaged,” he announced authoritatively. Judging by the shrieking and giggling sounds emanating from behind the closed door to Dean’s room, Sam didn’t need to ask what by.

It was at that point that Sam noted the golden bow that Castiel had slung over his trenchcoated shoulder; he was just grateful he didn’t see any arrows to go with it, but he wasn’t going to hang around to be proved wrong.

His mind was still wrestling with the image of the Castiel-centaur, when he turned on his heel and walked slowly away, his dazed mind barely even noticing the grapevine that was growing up the wall beside him.

xxxxx

_Thyrsus:_  
There is much left to do. I will not waste my freedom. My master needs acolytes. He shall have them. The Dionysian cult shall live once more… 

xxxxx

After his close encounter of the mind-boggling kind, Sam had headed back once again to the library, and settled in for a night of research on Dionysus and the Thyrsus. He needed to fill in the gaps in his knowledge, and he needed to do it without being distracted by the stupid music which was getting louder and more annoying by the hour.

On the plus side, at least it drowned out the ‘other’ noises… 

This was getting fucking ridiculous. His brother was turning into a sex and booze-crazed Olympian God, his best friend was halfway to becoming Mr Ed, the bunker was acquiring a population of scantily clad, lyre-playing wood nymphs and there was a grapevine creeping over his laptop screen.

Sam picked a convenient grape and popped it in his mouth.

Actually, not bad…

xxxxx

Sam wasn’t entirely sure what time last night he’d fallen asleep slumped across the library table, but he woke up face down in a drool-stained pile of parchment scrolls. The same dry and unfathomable Greek crap he’d been reading for hours and hours until he felt like his eyes were bleeding.

He blinked blearily and glanced around him. The grape vines had proliferated overnight, covering the entire wall before him along with most of the ceiling and, in a new development, a faint mist was drifting and coiling around the floor throughout the Library.

Sam yawned. He needed to reacquaint himself with his research to remember what he’d read last night. He hoped to hell that he’d found some nugget of information that he could use to help Dean, but first he had to kickstart his brain. And that meant caffeine.

Sam stood up.

CLANG!

“What the hell?”

Sam attempted to look up but somehow his head was tangled in something. He reached up to try to figure out his predicament and realised … horns. There were horns. HORNS GROWING OUT OF HIS HEAD!!!

Sam’s hands frantically flailed as he tried to rationalise that there were two long curved horns growing straight up out of his head, and that they were currently tangled in the light fitting. He tugged and gyrated in panic until, with a crash and a shower of sparks, he yanked the light, the bulb and all its wires clean out of the ceiling, sending it crashing to the floor at his feet. 

Feet…

HOOVES!

“AAAAARGH!!”

The size thirteen feet and faded blue jeans that Sam had fallen asleep with had somehow been replaced overnight with cloven hooves. These were, in turn attached to a pair of hairy goat legs. The goat legs were attached at the point of Sam’s, thankfully still very human, hip-bones which, he was alarmed to note, were clearly visible due to the fact that during the transition he seemed to have burst out of most of his clothes, judging by the few pathetic rags of denim and flannel that were hanging around him. 

He leapt to the side, in a rather pointless attempt to jump out of the legs, as if they were a comedy fancy dress costume, but they remained obstinately attached. 

The mist coiled and swirled as Sam clattered around the library in a faintly hysterical confusion, his brain unsure whether to panic about his horns or his legs first, and so attempting to multitask instead.

All he knew was that he was no longer tempted to kill Dean. No, that was far too easy; slow torture – that was the way to go now.

Charging out of the Library, and hanging onto the wall for support – it was unsurprisingly hard to walk when your legs suddenly bent the wrong way - Sam clip-clopped his way awkwardly through the bunker toward Dean’s room, following the sounds of harp music, pan-pipes and rowdy laughter. 

He was met with the sight of Dean, and his increasing entourage of wood nymphs conga-ing drunkenly around the bemused centaur who, Sam noted, had wrapped his blue tie around his head to keep his errant forelock out of his face.

“Sammy,” slurred Dean; “c’mon – join th’party!”

Dean somehow either didn’t notice, or didn’t care, that his brother, his only living relative, the focus of his heart and soul and entire life, was currently a satyr. A very, very angry satyr.

“DEEEEAN!” Sam roared.

It was enough to stop the party in its tracks for a moment.

“S’matter, Sammy,” Dean grinned, from under the crooked and slightly too large crown of Ivy on his head.

“What’s the matter?” growled Sam; “what’s the freaking matter?”

“Yeah?” Dean hiccupped, and hoicked his bedsheet toga up back onto his shoulder from where it had slipped during the revelry. 

“I’M MISTER FUCKING TUMNUS, ASSHAT! THAT’S THE GODDAMN MATTER!!!”

Dean paused, looking his brother up and down as he took a swig of wine from a large silver chalice, most of which seemed to end up running down his chin onto his chest.

“Cool,” Dean eventually replied; “it’s good to see I’m not the only one that’s feeling horny!” He grinned; “c’mon Sammy, join the party!” He gathered in some of the wood nymphs who crowded adoringly around him; “a couple of these sweet li’l saplings would love a bit of full-on Satyr action!”

Sam’s nostrils flared with goatish fury. “Right, that’s it,” he roared; “I’m gonna burn that damn staff.” 

He took a defiant step forward but found himself face-to-chest with a very stern looking centaur.

“I am sorry, Sam. I can’t permit that.”

Sam glared up into Castiel’s ocean-blue eyes, daring him to stop his assault on the Thyrsus, but an impatient stamp of the Centaur’s hoof was enough to make him reluctantly back off.

Standing despondently in the corridor, Sam watched as Dean and his retinue danced and stumbled drunkenly back through the mist towards Dean’s room, accompanied by the jaunty strains of badly-played pan pipes and even worse singing.

Castiel stood silently, barring Sam’s way as the tuneless racket receded into the distance.

“I regret the need for this action,” Castiel stated sincerely.

Sam shrugged; “s’okay,” he sighed.

“Want a grape?” Castiel enquired, offering a bunch to Sam.

Sam politely declined.

xxxxx

Back in the library, Sam sat back in his now all-too-familiar chair, and knuckled his weary eyes. He probably should have felt more satisfied than he did; after all, actually figuring out how to sit in a chair when you’re half goat is an achievement in and of itself.

But, apart from a brief moment, where he’d had to stop himself from eating one of the scrolls, it had been a very productive afternoon – especially given the infuriatingly off-putting din of Dean and his revellers partying their way around the bunker.

As he’d found no help from the Letters’ files, he embraced his first-hand experience and began to search for information relating to satyrs which, even in the Supernatural world, were about as rare as it got.

His tenaciousness was rewarded when he found references to various sightings of satyrs that tied in perfectly with the various movements of the Thyrsus in the centuries prior to the Men of Letters taking ownership of it.

That was it. Sam’s lightbulb moment – handy, since the room’s actual lightbulb was shattered over the floor – this wasn’t the first time the Thyrsus had caused this effect.

And Sam was willing to bet that’s why it kept changing hands. Every time it encountered someone who, for want of better words, liked to live life to the full – Dean, basically – it created this mayhem.

He was sure it was trying to find its way back to Dionysus.

xxxxx

Sam’s moment of triumph was clouded somewhat when he sat back and pondered on what exactly this new discovery gained him.

In short – nothing.

He still didn’t know what to do with the staff – whether to destroy it or not. And even if he did, he had to get past a duty-obsessed centaur first.

He was still a satyr, horns and all (plus a pair of furry pointed ears which he had only just discovered, to his dismay). Dean was still making merry, and very loud, music with a crowd of wood nymphs, and the bunker still looked like a vineyard.

He was still mulling over what to do next when a thought stuck him.

Suddenly, everything had gone quiet.

xxxxx

_Thyrsus:_  
Oh.  
Well, this is awkward… 

xxxxx 

The music had stopped. The laughing and shrieking and singing had stopped.

He stood up, and clip-clopped across the library.

“Dean?” he called, cautiously.

The answer was almost instantaneous as a very haggard and wrecked Dean met him at the door of the library.

“Oh, hey Samm… crap. Are those … HORNS?”

Sam scowled.

“Yes Dean, they are horns,” he pointed to his legs as he continued; “and these are hooves. Now, tell me – what the hell is going on?”

Dean stood before his brother, resplendent in limp ivy crown and wine-stained bedsheet.

“Yikes,” he croaked.

Sam folded his arms across his chest.

“I just remember drinking a lot. And having sex. LOTS of sex,” Dean began.

“Yeah, I get the picture,” groaned Sam.

“But now, the chicks have all gone,” Dean explained; “they just … disappeared, like ‘POOF’ into thin air.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, my bedroom is full of dead plants and squashed grapes.”

“Oh?”

“And Cas is walking around with his tie wrapped round his head and no pants on.”

“Oh …” Sam paused in thought for a moment; “wait - how many legs has Cas got?”

Dean’s bloodshot eyes narrowed. “Well two of course. How many would he have? He’s an angel, not a freakin’ tarantula.”

Sam smiled weakly and shrugged. “Just checking,” he muttered.

It was at that precise moment that Sam the satyr suddenly reverted back to Sam the human, and he stumbled weak-kneed into Dean as his legs pinged back into their human shape.

“And … now, you’re not wearing any pants, either,” Dean helpfully observed.

“Oh, shit!”

Sam made a grab for one of the scrolls on the table and unravelled it in order to spare his blushes.

“Dean, uh, I’m going to go put some pants on … why don’t you go and do the same?”

Dean looked down, blinking blearily; “Uh, yeah. Exactly why am I wearing my bedlinen?”

Sam shook his head. “Don’t ask, just – don’t.”

xxxxx

Once he was decent, and Dean was busy in the shower, Sam took the opportunity to go and retrieve the Thyrsus from Dean’s bedroom wall and take it back down to the vaults. 

He shut it into a big metal chest in the darkest corner of the deepest vault and hid the key in a jar of something nasty. It was a menace, and although it was clear from Dean’s experience that the object of the staff’s influence had no real idea of what was happening to them, that was no consolation to everyone in their vicinity.

No, the staff had to stay hidden. At least until Sam could figure out if there was any way it could be returned safely to Greece, or otherwise destroyed.

In the meantime, he made a mental note to buy a really big padlock for the door to the vaults.

And if that didn’t work, well, tying Dean to chair for the rest of his life didn’t seem such an unreasonable option now.

xxxxx

The brothers sat in the kitchen, and Sam was not too big to admit that he was rather enjoying Dean’s epic hangover. Dean, sporting his sunglasses, (and Sam gleefully took the opportunity to remind him who wears sunglasses indoors), looked like he hadn’t slept for a month, and sounded like he’d been gargling weapons-grade Plutonium.

Sam had exactly zero sympathy. Dean deserved every minute of suffering he was experiencing, and then some.

Also, he would be lying if he said he wasn’t amused by the very simple reason for their return to normality, once he’d managed to wheedle it out of Dean.

“It’s never happened to me before,” Dean mumbled gloomily into his coffee mug which, Sam was delighted to note, actually contained coffee.

“What?”

“Well, you know …”

Sam shrugged. “No Dean, I really don’t.”

“I think it was all the wine…”

“What?”

“Well, you know … after a while, I couldn’t … I tried to, but … nothing … you know… up…” 

Sam paused. A picture was forming and it wasn’t a picture he wanted in his head. Ever.

“And it was just … I couldn’t … not even when …”

“STOP.” Sam snapped, holding up a hand in a classic ‘halt’ gesture; “stop right there.”

xxxxx

_Thyrsus:_  
I was mistaken. This is not my master. He is a physical, mortal man. He has woeful limitations that my master would never countenance.  
My search must continue.  
Or at least it would if I wasn’t stuck in this box…  
Oh bugger. 

xxxxx

“Oh well,” Sam commiserated; “I guess that would never happen to Dionysus. That’s probably why everything went back to normal.”

“Not helping Sam,” Dean croaked, shaking his head and instantly regretting it.

“Never mind,” Sam grinned; “how about I make you a nice greasy pork sandwich served up on a dirty ashtray?”

He laughed as Dean clapped his hand over his mouth and stumbled toward the bathroom and couldn’t help but notice Dean busily scratching his groin as he went.

Ah. Maybe they weren’t quite clear of the influence of Dionysus - just yet.

xxxxx

end


End file.
